


The Hanged Man

by Basingstoke



Category: Murder Most Likely (1999)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-31
Updated: 2001-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walls were white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hanged Man

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to everyone who read this over, especially Dee for the beta.

* * *

The walls were white.

The floors were white.

The light was white.

The bars were steel.

The toilet was steel.

His sheets were white.

His shoes were white.

His pants were black.

His shirt was white.

The silent eye of the security camera was black in its steel casing. A tiny light glowed red, a fascinating, inviting red.

The fluorescent lights hummed. White noise.

He looked down at his arms, which were shockingly pink. Faint white scars infringed on his knuckles and the tips of his nails showed white beyond the quick. He chewed his nails absently as he looked around his cell, waiting for something to change.

A hand holding a mirror slid through the bars in the front of the cell next to his. He could see eyes in the mirror, green eyes and pink skin, but that was all. The wall dividing them was thick and solid.

"I know you," a voice said, and the eyes in the mirror narrowed.

"I doubt it," he said.

"You're the cop."

He laughed.

The hand turned the mirror vertically and he could see one eye, a cheek and part of a smiling mouth before the hand pulled the mirror back into the cell.

He sat and waited for something to happen.

* * *

Breakfast was grayish oatmeal and milk on a steel tray. He got a newspaper, black print on light gray paper.

He turned a page carelessly and cut himself. He stared at the bright red bead of blood in fascination as it welled up and slid down his finger into his palm. He licked at it, tasting the bright metal sweetness with the overlay of bitter newspaper ink.

There was an article on him. Murderer imprisoned. Justice served. Twenty-five years without possibility of parole, it said, in clear Times New Roman font.

It didn't seem real yet. He stuck the paper under his bed on the dustless white floor.

After breakfast he saw the mirror again. He sat on his bunk and stared at the reflected eyes.

"I know you," the voice said.

"You don't know me," he said.

"I know you," the voice said, sounding sure.

"Nobody knows me," he said. He'd been undercover too long to   
be knowable.

The mirror turned and he saw a smiling mouth instead of eyes. "I recognize you," the mouth said. The mirror tilted, showing eyes, mouth, eyes, mouth, tilting back and forth until he saw the entire face in bits and pieces.

He didn't know the face.

* * *

Dinner was chicken in a whitish sauce with cauliflower and bright orange carrots. He pushed them around the plate for a little while before eating them.

The guards were there and gone too fast for him to charm them--at least this time. He'd find a bribe or a deal that would get him some privileges. It happened all the time, and he was a sharp guy. There was always an angle, a lever, something he could press to get what he wanted. There was always something. It just wasn't obvious yet.

The unblinking, charmless camera watched him as he watched the blank, white walls and waited for something to change.

* * *

The next day he saw the mirror again, the teasing glimpses of face. He scrutinized the face, searching for recognition.

"Who are you?" he asked the face.

"Someone who knows you," the voice said.

"But you don't know me."

"I know enough."

"You don't know anything."

"I know you're a dirty cop. I know you're in solitary for your own protection. I know you have no hope of release. I know you're talking to a mirror," the voice said, and the mirror tilted so that it reflected only the curve of a cheek.

He wanted suddenly, desperately, to see the eyes again, to search the face one more time. "That's not much to know about me."

"It's enough." The mirror withdrew.

"I have hope," he said. "Lots of hope."

"We all do," said the voice, and then it was silent.

He sat and stared at the blank white wall, waiting.

* * *

  


# end. 

  


* * *


End file.
